Candace Robb - The Fire In The Flint

‘So you’ll come?’

‘Roger will be furious,’ Margaret said.

‘I should think he’d be worried.’

‘Of course.’ Margaret took a deep breath and nodded. ‘But how will we get past the English?’

‘They are not yet organised, but they will be soon. Jonet shall be your maid, and you heading for the lying in of a friend in the country, with an old friar escorting you.’

She surprised him with a mischievous smile.

His conscience bothering him, he warned her, ‘We might have difficulty returning.’

‘I am tired of holding my breath,’ she said.

‘And what of Fergus?’

‘His wounds are not severe. His father can attend him. Lead on, Friar James.’

He would have kissed her if the others had not been there.

Celia still regarded James Comyn with suspicion. In her opinion, a person who so enjoyed playing someone else was too unpredictable to trust. So even though she could see that Margaret and Comyn were decided, she protested her separation from her mistress, and when ordered to Ada’s she departed with a heart full of apprehension. She took care to avoid Watergate, where Roger might see her, because Margaret had seemed so worried about his taking out his anger on her. She recalled the marks on Margaret’s shoulders one morning, small bruises, like the impressions of fingertips. Celia was a tiny woman and knew she would not survive a beating as well as her tall, strong-boned mistress. Nor did she want the lying, scheming traitor to lay a hand on her. She could not understand how she had believed her former mistress’s constant litany of her son’s virtues and wondered whether Dame Katherine had actually been deceived by him. Perhaps she had offered Celia’s services to Margaret because she knew she needed protection.

Celia thought of the look of devilish enjoyment on Margaret’s face as she told her of her plan to go to the camp of the Wallace and decided that the machinations of Roger and the Kerr family had driven her wits from her. Now it would be up to Celia to protect her mistress’s reputation. But she must avoid a confrontation with Roger because he was too devious for her.

She arrived at Ada’s safely and was immediately engulfed in the rose-scented silks of her mistress’s best friend, only gradually managing to disentangle herself from Ada’s strong embrace.

‘Where is Maggie?’ Ada asked, adjusting Celia’s cap and tidying her own veil. She was a beautiful older woman, and apparently vain. ‘Sinclair was here searching for her, and there is a tragic tale spreading through the town about her mother. I’ve been so worried.’ Vain she might be, but her expression and voice bespoke honest concern.

Celia dreaded hearing of more involving the family she served, but she must know the worst. ‘We’d heard no word of Dame Christiana.’

‘Where is Maggie?’ Ada repeated.

Celia reminded herself as she took a seat as far from Ada’s niece and baby as she could find that Margaret trusted her friend more than she did her parents, so it might be safe to trust Ada with the truth. ‘My mistress has taken the traitorous maid Jonet to William Wallace somewhere outwith the town.’

‘God watch over her,’ Ada said, pressing her hands to her heart. ‘Does she have a worthy escort?’

Celia nodded.

‘Then that is good news indeed. It is best she is away until the gossips have tired of the tale. But the Wallace.’ She shook her head, then tilted it and studied Celia. ‘I’ll brew something to calm you.’

‘I am fine.’

‘Your eyes disagree.’

While Ada disappeared into the kitchen, Celia exchanged pleasantries with the woman’s niece and admired the healthy baby.

‘I pray she grows up in a peaceful world,’ said the young mother. ‘It is difficult to hope, but sinful to despair, so says my mother.’

‘And what does your aunt say?’

The niece smiled shyly. ‘That I must teach her to be strong and able to fend for herself.’

‘You have a most wise aunt,’ said Celia. ‘For I’ve seen no great outpouring of Christian charity of late.’

‘Amen,’ said Ada from the doorway. She preceded a maid who carried a tray of cups to a small table and set a pair of cushioned chairs on either side.

Celia eased into the chair with a sigh of pleasure. Two chairs — and cushions. Dame Ada’s lover must have been a great lord.

‘Come now,’ said the hostess, ‘sit and sip your mistress’s favourite tisane while I tell you of Dame Christiana’s most unfortunate vision. Knowing her as long as I have, I pray for her, for I know she meant no harm.’

When Ada had recounted the deed for which the English soldiers were grateful, Celia sat with her hands in her lap, her head hanging, and prayed for her mistress, that she would hear of this from a friend who might soften the blow, and that God would protect her from her family’s diabolical selfishness.

Having guessed the identity of the friar at the door, Malcolm had no doubt that Maggie, wherever she had been, was headed for Wallace’s camp north of the town, and he was not about to betray his daughter to his unsatisfactory son-in-law. Sinclair had left it late to worry about his wife’s safety. Malcolm must think of a distraction, something to waste their time until Maggie returned. If she did so.

Roger stood at the street door staring out into the sunny afternoon.

Aylmer sat near Malcolm, drinking watered wine and in general behaving like no servant a man would tolerate. ‘I heard a whispering on Northgate as I waited without Dame Ada’s house,’ he said. ‘Your good wife, Dame Christiana, warned the English of Wallace’s watchers on the cliffs above the Tay. Kinnoull Hill?’ He shook his head, uncertain of the name.

Roger drew closer. ‘Were our countrymen caught?’

Aylmer nodded. ‘So they were saying.’

‘Are you certain you heard aright?’ Malcolm asked. ‘There are other women with the name Christiana in the town.’

‘Not with the Sight,’ said Roger. ‘That damned woman.’

Malcolm felt ill. He’d always felt so when hearing of Christiana’s misspeaking, but this … ‘I’ll not have you cursing my wife,’ he said, though his heart was not in the words. ‘By the Rood, it is that prioress, Agnes de Arroch, who has ruined her, I’m sure of it. That bitch thinks only of the wealth and renown pilgrims will bring to Elcho.’

‘Her own kinsmen guard the priory from the English,’ Roger said. ‘I do not think Prioress Agnes would encourage Christiana to support the invaders.’

‘She would if she saw profit in it,’ Malcolm growled. But Aylmer had given him an idea. ‘No doubt Maggie’s heard the rumour and has gone to learn the truth of it,’ he said. ‘Oh, Christ, my foolish wife may have bought our family’s safety with those men’s lives. But Maggie will never forgive her.’ An idea was dawning even as he spoke. If Christiana had been coerced into something so cruel by her prioress, she might be ready to abandon her cloister. ‘We must go to her. Maggie will be there, I’m certain of it.’

Roger looked incredulous. ‘Walk through the English saying sweetly that we’re kinsmen to their visionary?’

‘We’ll go in the dark,’ Malcolm said. ‘So I’ve done many a time.’

Christiana could not warm her hands though she curled them around a warm cup of mulled wine. And yet her face felt as if it were on fire. Marion assured her that her forehead was quite cool to the touch and wrapped her in a plaid. Still Christiana shivered and her face burned.

‘You are so shrouded in plaid on this summer day?’ Dame Bethag exclaimed upon seeing her. ‘Are you unwell, Dame Christiana?’

‘My soul is encased in ice, Dame Bethag. I must confess to you.’